Saving Himself
by Nautical Acronym
Summary: "Electricity was a dead mans toy; gasoline an evaporated mess of incombustible compounds. They did everything the old fashioned way, including this." Rated M for gore.


Oh, what's this? Fanfiction NA will never finish? You bet your booty it is.

The first part of this was something I posted a while ago and was sort of an experiment in giving a twist ending to something; however, most people didn't quite catch what I was aiming for and so I changed some things with it to hopefully make what I was trying to say clearer. The other half is because I was encouraged to write more around this idea and my image of how Chell and Wheatley live outside of Aperture seems to be slightly different than most peoples…? Not because of where they live, but just HOW they live.

Anyway, this is sort of becoming a story in my head and it seems to be one of those ones that incorporates a number of ideas that I have had, but never really explored with the portal universe.

So… this is rated **M** for gore and some references to sex. Hopefully you cool cats are all cool with this.

If you read it and you like it please comment! If you read it and you hate it please comment! could really use some feedback.

* * *

**Saving Himself**

He didn't know which was worse, the tears or the blood. Both of them just kept dripping and spilling over his shaking hands as he mercilessly sent the saw ripping through her ligament and bone; through her desperate crying and his own head.

_This is crazy! What are you doing?  
_  
_Ding!_ Simple answer: _saving himself_. Wheatley was a creature of self-serving purposes and this was just another form of insurance.

Death didn't look real back when he was a machine. It hadn't been this visceral with the metallic tang of blood reaching up at him and the sick-sweet smell of perspiration thick and cloying in the air. It had been messy, plenty messy, but he had never been in the thick of it with it spattering all over him. And it hadn't looked exactly like all the stuff that was inside him at the time. However, Wheatley was human now and the idea of his own organs paper thin and filled with the same mixture of plasma and suspended cells was enough to make his recently discovered stomach feel like it was somewhere in the back of his throat.

Chell screamed and he hushed her, pressing his boney, blood soaked fingers against the back of her skull and willing her to _stop making this so difficult_.

His fingers laced between the limp strands of her bedridden hair.

Even in this she was determined.

Wheatley pressed on, waiting for it to be over; willing the saw to cut deeper, faster, just to get it over with so he could stumble down the hallway and retch all over the floor. He was dangerously close to retching now.

They had found the handsaw a few weeks earlier in a store filled with tools many of which no longer functional. Electricity was a dead man's toy; gasoline an evaporated mess of incombustible compounds. They did everything the old fashioned way, including this.

There was a sickening crack, the wet warmth of ever more blood spilling down his forearms and dripping across the bends of his knees. The rest of the process was quick; his hands performing movement that in his regular state of mind he wouldn't have been able to fathom; useful things, hands.

Eventually she wasn't screaming; wasn't bleeding.

Breathing, she was breathing: shallow and quick, but doing it all the same. He relaxed the hand beneath her head, cradling it in a way he never imagined he could and rubbed soft circles with his cold, sweat-shaky fingers.

He eyed the partially intact form of her leg; the other half had been damaged beyond repair after her fall. The only available option for her and him was to rely upon both his own shaky skills at doing anything and her ability to endure whatever came at her. He rolled the lower half of her leg in an empty burlap bag- the leg he had once traced with nervous fingers as she moaned into his chest. He had set it in the hallway out of sight.

He kissed the smooth crown of her forehead, held her small, cold hands and brushed her tangled mat of hair.

Wheatley was selfish; always so selfish. She would have died from infection otherwise (she still could) so really this was for her; he was doing this _for her_, but- in the back of his mind in that same part that held his unstable set of morals and enjoyed the touch of her mouth on every part of him, he knew he was doing this for him.

In all that he had done and in all that was to come he needed her.

His heart flipped like a servo kicking out of place.  
_  
By God_, he really needed her.

* * *

Life as a human was a constant struggle, requiring more of him than living as a core had ever demanded. Yet, with all these new responsibilities and dangers Wheatley found that life as a human was preferable. He had seen and done a number of things that as a core would not have only been impossible, but with the programming of a core, limited in its experiences and impulses, he would have found downright uninteresting. With this new body however came a whole set of knew experiences and sometimes it was as if human perception were laced with magic.

As a core, he would never have (and truly hadn't) had any particle interest in the slope of Chell's shoulders or the flair of her hip, but now those pieces of her seemed to catch his eye, a pleasing form weaving something electric and pleasant in his veins. There was also the softer magic which would spider web in his chest whenever he caught her smiling.

The world at large was suddenly creeping with this hidden element; this hidden magic.

Overall, going topside had been one of his best decisions.

Chell had opposed the idea at first, of course she would have, but the facility really wasn't all it was cracked up to be, was it? Whole thing just sort of fell apart and, well, he hadn't any intention of being in charge of a mess. He should have been paid for managing to keep it up as long as he did.

She was also a lunatic, no doubt about it. He had practically saved her from the burning facility (never mind that he had only let the lift go up once he realized that _he_was going to die in a fireball) and her show of gratitude was giving him a broken nose and several bruises. However, she was useful and, he realized rather quickly, unusually kind.

Wheatley thought she would kill him at first- he may have been a tall human, but the atrophied muscles in this new body left him horribly weak. She had hit him, yes, hit him as hard as she could and kicked dirt into his mouth after he fell.

But after that she had spent nights rubbing his fingers into life, her small hands grasping his large knuckled ones and showing him how to bend and move them. She spent hours coaxing his muscles out of their sleep and stretching his limbs to help him in his movement. It had hurt- it had hurt like _hell _and he had thought that maybe this was her own brand of torture; just another cruelty along with everything else that she had done to him, but as the months moved on he realized that the little exercises she put him through were good for him. He could hold a glass without it slipping and spend more than an hour on his feet at a time. One of the few moments of success he had reached was being able to walk on his own and when he had looked up in pure, wonderful joy he had seen a tiny smile softening her features.

She must have hit her head on the way out of the facility. It would explain the sudden difference in her person. In the facility she had never been happy for his successes; she had never been kind or cooperative. But out here, she was encouraging. She seemed to like seeing him accomplish things on his own. It was a bizarre sensation to realize that he was far more competent as a human than he had ever really been as a core.

This was one of those situations.

He wiped his hands on a towel and stood in the doorway, observing her as she lay sprawled in the sheets of their bed.

He had tried to keep the whole process sanitary and he had somehow managed it. Her leg had been cut as cleanly as he was able and afterwards he had taken the large needle and threaded shut the wound just like she had instructed beforehand. It was amazing how much he had understood without words.

He watched the rising of her chest, trying not to think about how close he still was to losing her. There was another little flip somewhere below his ribcage and he rubbed it, pressing his fingers against the still foreign sensation of bone below a thin layer of shirt and skin. He didn't think he could get on much without her around. Of course he _could_it was just a great deal less convenient. She was useful and he was maybe not as amazing as he had been in the chassis, but he was still pretty good at doing things she couldn't like reaching the tops of things and busting doors. Besides that, she seemed to be too afraid to leave when he got into his rages and sent the furniture flying. Although he had a strange feeling that she stayed because she was worried about him and while he openly scoffed at her for it at times there was a secret part of him so eternally grateful.

He returned to the kitchen of their little house and fished around one of the cupboards for a cloth. They had set up house in the suburbs and taken to making their place as shiny and new looking as they were able. Warehouses, they discovered, were a blessing. Filled to the brim with plastic wrapped items all in bulk and securely stored so that even after everyone was gone the items remained almost completely undamaged despite the years of neglect.

He pulled a bowl from another cupboard, filling it with a small bit of water from a glass dispenser set upon their counter. Moving back quietly to the room he sat softly on the edge of the bed preparing to wipe the sweat and blood off of her tired face. She looked a mess; worse than she had coming out of suspension. Her eyes were not as clear or as determined, just hazy and unfocussed ready to go back to sleep.

"How are you, love?" he whispered, dabbing the cloth across her forehead. Her eyes fluttered. He hadn't expected much more than that. "Tell you what, after we get this all cleaned up I'll get you some soup. Sound alright love? I, uh, I watched you sealing it up in those jars just last week so it's nice and fresh, I'll get it all heated up for you, how does that sound?"

He didn't expect a response, really, but her head gave a short sharp nod and he smiled.

"Thatta girl!" he continued dabbing at her face, trying to be gentle. She looked as delicate as spun glass.

It was bizarre, this relationship which they had formed. He had every right to hate her and once he was well enough to fend for himself he could have killed her, could have taken everything she taught him and thrown it right back in her face, but Wheatley had found the idea rather unappealing- another side effect of being human he assumed. She may have been awful before, but she was alright _now_ and besides he could barely remember anything that had happened during his tenure as supreme-ruler-of-everything. Oh, he could remember Chell all right, moody and ungrateful, but the rest of it was sort of blurred around the edges with nothing explicitly clear or really adding up. Admitting this though was the last thing he was inclined to do- it might give her an edge he wasn't willing to give up. Also, there was another vague notion in his mind telling him that not remembering wasn't such a bad thing. He was inclined to listen to that voice; it was the one that seemed to keep him out of danger the most.

He went to retrieve the new sheets for her taking a moment to flip on the electric generator in their cupboard before returning to the room. Replacing the covers was a somewhat difficult process but when all was said and done she was wrapped in clean sheets and tucked securely in. He mimicked the way she had tucked him in when the nights were cold, hoping it made her feel the same sort of safe.

Returning to the kitchen he grabbed a pot, a jar of soup and fumbled with the stove tops dials.

As a core even the simplest of jobs had been daunting for him, but as a human these sorts of everyday tasks, once learned, were not in fact forgotten. Things seemed to stick better now and he was very grateful for that; another reason to want to continue this existence.

He returned to their room some time later to find her very much asleep, but he gently jostled her awake anyways offering her the bowl.

They sat together as she ate and then, as she tired he tucked her in once more kissing her brow.

Their life was going to be very different after this and it was only now, sitting next to her after all that had occurred; all that blood and all those tears, that the full meaning of everything that had transpired occurred to him.

Now, when he had relied upon her so long and for so much she was going to have to rely on _him_.

They were both in a very bad situation.

Wheatley sat beside her, gutted and hollow.

~END~


End file.
